


C'était fatal

by tasteofthebitchpudding



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Existing AU, F/M, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-09-23 11:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17079338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofthebitchpudding/pseuds/tasteofthebitchpudding
Summary: Assorted one-shots from theDistractionsAU; ratings and time-frame will vary, see AN at the top of each





	1. Réveillon

**Author's Note:**

> Christine attempts to recreate the Christmas tradition of her childhood, despite hunger pains and an unhelpful Opera Ghost
> 
> Réveillon akes place several years after the events in _Distractions_ , written for NotAGhost3 on FFN

“I don’t understand why you don’t just eat something, my dear, if you’re so hungry.”

Christine grit her teeth and narrowed her eyes in the direction of a certain opera ghost, who was at present helping himself to a second glass of spiced brandywine. 

If she hadn’t been in such a state of stressed holiday hysteria, she may have found the image of him---in his brocade waistcoat and shirtsleeves, the cuffs folded back to reveal sinewy, white forearms, looking trim and casual and utterly unlike the frightening specter he was thought to be---quite appealing. Seeing him dressed thusly usually would bring a sparkle to her eye and a rush of heat to her core, but today she was in _no_ mood.

When she had tasked him earlier in the week with the preparation of the festive drink, he’d grumbled over wasting a perfectly nice bottle of his Beaujolais on the “pointless holiday frivolity.” Of course, once he’d started the job he’d attended it with all of the care and precision in which he undertook all of his projects, tinkering with the recipe she’d provided him until he’d _improved_ it. 

It had annoyed her initially that he couldn’t simply do as he was told, although the result of his experimentation--fewer cloves, a touch more citrus, and odd star-shaped pod and an extra cinnamon stick--had yielded a completely lovely drink that warmed the insides and brought a flush to Christine’s cheeks that he had pronounced “most becoming.” 

She tried to remind herself of that moment now, of how his amber eyes had twinkled when she’d leaned in to allow him a kiss to her wine-flushed cheek, and not dwell on how thoroughly annoying he was being at the present time. 

As it was, when he reached across the table where she was laying out the serving platters, after his assumed pronouncement of her own hunger, his long, elegant fingers dancing in the air before plucking a choice morsel from a plate of honeyed dates rolled in walnuts, she struggled mightily to keep her composure.

He’d popped the offending snack into his mouth as he turned to her, his eyes widening slightly at the fury radiating off the normally placid soprano. A lifetime of shielding his features behind a mask meant that Erik was completely unschooled in hiding his facial tics and the face he pulled at her, reminiscent of a contrite schoolboy, might have been endearing under different, less fraught circumstances. 

His collar was open, she saw, and the flash of exposed white skin gave her ample view of the way his throat bobbed as he gulped nervously. The same graceful, guilty hand quickly nudged the surrounding dates to disguise the hole he’d created on her platter.

“Dearest, I think if you were to just--”

Christine whirled away from the hand that was reaching for her, cutting off his placating words. “Do _not_ speak to me of eating, you ungrateful man! We are meant to be fasting!”

She had forgiven him for his abasement of Mamma Valerius’ recipe, as she thought the brandywine might be the gateway in which she could usher him into joining her in holiday merriment.

Thus far, he’d managed to prove her wrong.

.  
.

The réveillon de noël had been a tradition since she and her father had been taken in by Professor Valerius and his wife, when she was just a girl. Christine would help Mamma in the kitchen for days, making cakes and tarts, shelling chestnuts and ensuring no wayward feathers remained on the goose. 

The sweet smells and festive decorations of those days of preparation stood out in her mind as being joyful and so much fun...she accepted, now, as she felt hair clinging to the back of her neck in perspiration, that perhaps her halcyon memories of those days were colored by youth and the distance of time. 

Preparing a meal of such extravagance was _work_ , and she was still waiting, perhaps foolishly, for the fun to arrive.

On Christmas Eve they would fast, her and Papa and Mamma Valerius and the Professor. After a day of quiet, seeing to the last-minute meal preparations before attending the midnight service, they would go to the mass together. As a young girl she had marveled over the crèche scene, and would ooh and aah over the animals and newborn saviour, who would be placed in the cradle at the mass. 

After the service, they would walk home with friends in the snowy night. That walk home in the dark had always seemed especially magical to Christine, as giggling choristers had spilled from the church doors amidst their friends and neighbors. The crunch of the snow underfoot, their happy voices carrying through the still night...she felt like a maudlin fool thinking on it, but it all held such a special place in her heart.

Once safe in the warm house, the party and the feasting would begin. Papa would play his violin and she would sing and sing and sing until she was dizzy with the cheers from the guests the Valeriuses would invite. There would be sweets as far as the eye could see, desserts for each of the apostles, and she would eat candied orange slices and fat, sweet figs and chocolates until she was fit to burst. 

This year was the first Christmas since Mamma was gone. Gone to the angels, to the Professor and to Papa, her last bit of family. Her guardian had been ill for some time and her decline had been steady, although she was surrounded by comfort and care and love at the end, Christine reminded herself...but that didn’t keep the grief at bay once the holidays approached. The grief sometimes seemed to overwhelm her, and Christine felt as though she were not just mourning the loss of the old woman, but for her father all over again, for the carefree days of her childhood, and the person she once was. 

As the cold winter swept into the city, Christine had decided to honor the memory of all of those she’d loved and lost by creating her own réveillon feast for Christmas. 

She had spent hours decorating the parlour and the library, hanging boughs of aromatic greens and holly from the mantles and placing snowy white candles throughout. Her table was set with fine white china, she had polished the silver to a mirror shine, her Advent wreath sat glowing goldenly in the center of the table, awaiting her feast, the menu of which she’d planned for days.

A small hen had replaced the goose and guinea fowl, although Christine had still made Mamma’s chestnut stuffing for the smaller bird. Coquilles Saint-Jacques, pan-seared foie gras with roast beef, her beloved candied oranges, an assortment of dried fruits and nuts, the bûche de Noël...Christine wasn’t sure how they would be able to store the abundance of leftovers from the meal she’d slaved to create, but she found it necessary to have each of them on her table.

All that was missing from her planning was the companionship she remembered from her childhood days. There would not be a boisterous group of friends and family joining her for her feast, it would be a quiet meal for two, but she didn’t think that was any reason not to try to keep to as many of the traditions of her childhood as she was able.

When she’d told him of her plans, she’d received a quiet “Whatever you’d like, my dear. That sounds lovely.” He’d asked her for a recitation of the dishes she was serving, which he recorded on a slip of stationary in his spidery hand, and said nothing more. When she’d asked him if he would be joining her for her midnight supper, she’d received an even quieter “If it would please you.” 

If she’d been hoping for noisy excitement over the notion of a meal, she would have been disappointed, although, Christine considered, if it was exuberant excitement she wanted, she’d chosen very poorly all those moons ago.

.  
.

Several hours later, _fun_ had yet to make an appearance in Christine's holiday celebration.

She relished the fact that the echo of her slamming door reverberated down the hallway, as she flounced to her dressing table in fury. She knew she oughtn’t be so upset with him, after all the notion of celebration and Christmas was not one with which he was intimately familiar. But he wasn't even _trying_!

“We'll see if he's given the opportunity to be intimately familiar with _this_ ever again!” she muttered, flinging herself down to her tufted bench.

Hunger and thus irritation had been gnawing at her for the better part of the late afternoon, making her snappish and ornery, not that she’d admit it, certainly not to _him_. 

After the incident with the honeyed date, Erik had apparently decided the wisest course of action to ensure his continued good health into the new year was to disappear into his wine cellar, and she’d heard the odd muffled thump intermittently for the better part of the afternoon, as she grumbled.

A good amount of time had been spent on her toilette that evening; cleansing away the sweat from the kitchen, affixing her curls just so, arranging her beautifully embroidered overskirt atop her brand new forest green dress, and ensuring her lace cuffs frilled evenly. She had still been a disheveled wreck scarcely an hour or two ago, having spent the afternoon finishing off her fruit tarts and arranging the table, and now that she had managed to somewhat restore her appearance, the dreadful man, the _brute!_ had informed her he would not be accompanying her to mass.

“Darling?” Christine had found him in the parlour examining the clock on the mantel, partially hidden amongst the evergreen garland, with a frown as he adjusted his pocket watch. She had finished dressing and had expected to find him similarly changed, but there he stood at a quarter after the hour, still in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. “Erik, we need to be leaving shortly for mass, we don’t want to be late.”

“Yes, of course, my dear. Approximately how long should the service last? I want to ensure I’m on time to fetch you, this cold air is not good for your voice.”

She had stood there gaping for several heartbeats. His words made no sense, yet he waited patiently for an answer to his confusing query.

“Fetch me? Erik, I don’t understand, what do you mean you’ll need to--”

Christine cut off then, drawing in an outraged gasp. His eyes widened again as she clenched her fists furiously at her side. 

“Do you mean to tell me you don’t intend to accompany me to mass?” she hissed through clenched teeth. “After I’ve worked for _days_ to make a nice holiday for us?”

She hadn’t given him a chance to respond; stomping down the hallway, she’d slammed the door to her dressing chamber with everything she had in her. Sitting at her table now, she glared at her reflection in the mirror. Her favorite brooch, one he’d gifted her when she was still his student, was affixed at her collar, and the diamonds and sapphires glittered back at her mockingly in the firelight of her room. 

Earlier, she had put a dab of the perfume she knew he favored--a heady blend of bergamot and vetiver, with a deeper touch of cedarwood and musk--at the pulse points on her wrists, at her throat, behind each ear, and down the center of her décolleté. He could have had his choice on which spot to bury his face with a throaty groan then, but oh ho! Not now! 

A rumbling issued from her stomach, and Christine flushed. 

She _hated_ when he was right.

She twisted with hunger, and somewhere in the rational part of her mind, she knew she ought not be cross with him; he never attended mass with her, after all, and they had not discussed him doing so tonight. 

_Christine does not need Erik there to further sully her reputation, my dear_. 

His first thought, his only care was ever and always for her, she knew. That salient fact didn’t seem especially important just then, however. Not when she was melancholic, not when she had worked so very hard on their réveillon dinner, and certainly not when the delicious smells of roast chicken and sweet cakes were calling to her, just out of reach.

She managed to squeeze out a few self-indulgent tears, before composing herself. _You're a woman grown Christine, there’s no sense in throwing childish tantrums_ , she could almost hear Mamma's voice say. 

If she were a true diva, she thought, she would march back to the dining room, where her platters of cakes and hors d'oeuvres rested upon the sideboard, and flip the whole thing over, leaving him to clean the mess. She’d never been that sort, at any rate, Christine reminded herself, and she had no intention of starting now.

The parlour was empty when she came back out. Collecting her reticule and fur-lined cloak, she ventured out into the night. There was a carriage waiting at the street, and although she was loathe to give into anything he’d done for her, she didn’t want to muss her dress before the mass. Climbing into the carriage, Christine looked out sadly into the still, chill air.

.  
.

The familiar smell of incense had wrapped around her as soon as she entered the cathedral. The glow of dozens of white wax tapers filled the space, and Christine allowed herself to be swept away by the pageantry of the midnight service, forgetting her anger and her hunger for the moment. Many of the hymns were the same she’d sung in her childhood, and silent tears had tracked down her cheeks as she raised her voice with the other congregants, hoping her father could hear her, that he and Mamma and the Professor were looking down on her and smiling. 

As the mass let out, the doors opened, spilling congregants out into the night. She would not be getting into the carriage again, presuming it was still there waiting. This walk home was important to her, and she’d not be denied. 

Around the vestibule the usual coterie of society ladies were making the rounds, to her great annoyance. Christine normally did her best to avoid them, although tonight they circled to wish her a happy holiday before she could make her escape.

“Christine, that is a simply stunning dress! I’m surprised to see you here, dear...I though for certain you’d be Christmasing with the Vicomte and Vicomtesse!” Juliette trilled, after blocking the aisle. 

Christine felt her smile stiffen.

The invitation to the de Chagny’s réveillon de noël had arrived two weeks earlier, much to her surprise. The newly-minted Vicomtesse had tellingly overlooked inviting her the previous year, shortly after the nuptials to Raoul. When Christine had run into her childhood sweetheart several weeks into the new year, he’d been disheartened at her absence, insisting that she must join them the following Christmas. 

The invitation, as nice as it was, once it had arrived had gone into the fireplace.

Christine had no use for the parties and balls of the elite. The invitation was a nice gesture, but an empty one. She knew that no matter what events had transpired between her and the Vicomte, no matter what promises were blindly made and dangerously broken, she would always be little more than _some tart from the Opera_ in the eyes of the wealthy, titled guests who would be at such an affair.

Let them press flowers into her arms at the Opera and offer congratulations at her dressing room door, let them show their gratitude with patronage of the theater. She would play the part of the diva at work, but once the curtain was down and her dressing room door shut, she and her time belonged to none but herself. She had made her choices and lived with them gladly.

Christine had always been thought of as odd young woman, so it did not bother her that people thought it still today.

“Just a quiet night at home this holiday,” she demurred to the group of ladies who stood clustered. 

It helped, she reflected, that she had no reason to hang her head in front of these women. Her velvet-trimmed dress was beautiful; her fine cloak was lined in plush, warm sable, her darling hat trimmed with the same. They would be able to find no fault with the quality or fashionability of her boots or spats or gloves, nor with the precious gems that glittered at her throat or ears. 

She might have been an untitled opera tart, but the brute _did_ keep her very nicely turned out.

She couldn’t be cross with him, she knew. It was not his fault that she’d not informed him of her expectations for the evening, certainly not his fault that she was so bloody hungry. 

She excused herself from the group of ladies and made her way out of the cathedral into the night. It pained her to admit it, as she stepped out into the clear, cold darkness, but the magic of the holiday, the sense of _fun_ she remembered from her childhood was just that--a remnant of being a child, and she was a child no longer. A woman grown, wedded and bedded, it was time to give up her childish fantasies of the past.

.  
.

So intent on her ruminations she was, that when a dark shape pulled from the shadow of the building and placed a hand on her elbow, she let out a startled yelp of surprise.

A self-satisfied smirk had taken up residence across the thin lips below the edge of the black mask, and Christine swatted at his arm in outrage.

“You scared me half to death, you awful man!” she exclaimed with a choked laugh. 

“That was absolutely the intent,” came his airy reply, still smirking as he took her arm.

“What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were too busy hiding from me to notice I’d left for mass,” she mumbled, glancing around for the carriage she was _not_ getting into, no matter how much he protested. Instead, he huffed at her words.

“Erik would not permit you to walk through the dark streets in the middle of the night unaccompanied, Christine.” His tone was one of aggrieved offense, and she glanced over just in time to see him rolling his eyes dramatically at her. “Walking home like a peasant is terribly important, evidently, and so Erik is here.”

Tears threatened her eyes at his words, even as she smiled. It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand her need for things to be the way they’d once been, that he wasn’t used to celebrating, or the _pointless frivolity_ of these traditions...it was important to her, and so he was there. Gripping his arm, they set off into the night. 

Snow crunched underfoot and the cold air nipped at Christine’s face before she dipped her nose beneath the edge of her fur collar. She wasn’t sure if the winters had grown steadily colder since she remembered taking this walk through the snow, or if, like the fun of meal preparation, this was a ritual best left for children to enjoy. She gripped her husband’s arm a bit tighter, secure in the knowledge that Erik would never let her fall.

This cold air wasn’t good for her voice, it was true, nor would it be good for his hip, which occasionally pained him. She never felt as though she were married to an _older man_ , as one of Mamma’s friends had said uncharitably once over tea, although Christine did like an excuse to dote on him, when he permitted. Tomorrow would be such a day. 

Older or not, he cut a dashing figure in his topcoat with the nipped in waist, she thought. The brim of his hat, coupled with the thick muffler wrapped around his own throat concealed most of his black mask, although he currently had his face lifted from its warm confines as he addressed her again.

“Did you know, my love, that there is, as we speak, a confectionary explosion occurring across our dining room? I cannot fathom what sort of vulgar holiday God demands sixty different desserts to appease its fragile ego.” 

His tone was light, lighter than it normally was with a musical air of mischief about it, and Christine couldn’t hold in her short burst of laughter. Erik’s voice was what she had fallen in love with first; deep and dark and inherently majestic, he’d seduced her with its rich, velvet tone long before he’d ever laid a finger on her, not that she’d realized it at the time, little fool that she was. Hearing him now, sounding infinitely more playful than he had all day brought a wide smile to her face.

“Oh hush, you fool. There are only thirteen desserts, one for Jesus and each of his apostles.”

“Thirteen?! And presumably they all share around the table? It’s a small wonder the wood on that bloody cross didn’t crack from the weight!”

This time her laughter rang out across the street, unable to help herself. “Erik! That is blasphemous!” she admonished, shoulders shaking in mirth. His only response was to tug her a big closer as they walked, tapping his walking stick in an unconscious rhythm.

Further up in the road, Christine was able to see several children walking with their parents, and she smiled softly, thinking of her own Christmas Eve walks as a girl, tears pricking at her eyes once more. Perhaps it was because Mamma was gone, perhaps it was because this was her first Christmas with only her odd husband for company. They were married three years, yet her womb had not quickened, and although most days she gave it no thought, as busy as she was at the Opera, some days, days like this, the absence there hurt.

“Do you think we could hit them from here?”

Erik’s dark, curling voice was musing, pulling Christine from her reverie. They had reached the gate leading to their home, she realized, the lovely home above the ground he’d purchased for her after. After, after, after; after the tears and the screams and the betrayals, after the Vicomte and the chandelier and the kiss. After, it had still been the two of them, just Erik and Christine, and she had still loved him as much then as she had the morning she’d awoken in that beautiful room, the morning she’d wanted nothing more than to confess that love and marry him.

“Hit? What are you…” Christine gasped, hands coming up to her mouth in delighted horror. “Erik you don’t mean to...you wouldn’t!”

He was already stooped, rolling snow between his gloved hands. Before she could form any further protest, he’d had several medium-sized snowballs in a neat pile, and his arm was rearing back to launch one at the family ahead. Christine yelped when the snowball released, ducking down as she giggled in shocked excitement. Her husband excelled at nearly everything he put his hand to, and sure enough, the snowball hit its mark. 

She could hear the muffled shouts of protest from the family, but Erik was already throwing a second snowball. Christine could barely breathe, she was laughing so hard. _Fun_. She was having fun, she realized. It had arrived late, but arrived it had. 

She snatched a snowball from the pile at her husband’s feet and leapt back several paces, but he had apparently had the same plan and was whirling on her. The snowball she threw connected with the front of his coat, exploding in a satisfying burst of white against the heavy black wool, but before she could enjoy her handiwork there was a cold, wet blast at her shoulder, the resulting spray of snow catching her exposed neck and sliding wetly into her dress.

Her outraged shriek was swallowed by his lips, and she found herself scooped up and hurried up the stone steps. “I promise to warm you, but we don’t want to be caught out, dearest,” he whispered, and she realized the noises from the pelted family were growing closer. The front door key was pressed to her hands as Erik hopped down the steps to close and lock the small, black wrought-iron gate. A moment later, she tumbled into the foyer, still shaking with laughter, Erik right behind her. He swung the door shut quickly, deftly bolting the locks as she fell into him, her laughter at first muffled by his heavy coat, then again by his mouth against hers.

“You are a _wicked_ man!” she cried, still laughing as she pulled away, swatting at his shoulder. 

Suddenly, the murmur of voices could be heard just out in the road and Christine tucked herself against his front. Strong arms came around her as her eyes slipped shut, breathing in the smell of wet wool and smokey sandalwood, and the undefinable, uniquely appealing smell of him.

“For heaven’s sake, Patrice! Is this how you want to behave on Christmas?! In front of the girls?! I told you it was probably nothing more than some rowdy children!”

“It certainly didn’t _look_ like children,” the man who was Patrice sulked.

Christine looked up with wide eyes, unsure if they had left any snowballs in the road in front of their home. It hadn’t snowed since earlier that evening, so there were plenty of footprints and carriage tracks through the snow, but a pile of the offending weapons would be a damnable discovery. It certainly wouldn’t do to have an ugly altercation on Christmas, she fretted.

“All evidence destroyed, my dear,” Erik whispered, divining her thoughts before he kissed the tip of her nose. “Let us adjourn to the dining room, if it would please you, my Christine, and enjoy the meal my darling wife has spent so much time preparing, before that cantankerous beast who supplanted her earlier makes a return.”

Her gasp this time sucked every bit of air from her body as he pushed past her, hanging his coat on the hook near the door as he did so, glancing back to her over his shoulder. His honey-gold eyes danced with merriment, and she struggled out of her own cloak, unsure of whether she wanted to slap or kiss the devilish, crooked smile off of his face.

“You are a _rotten_ , ungrateful _brute_ of a ma--”

Christine’s voice cut off as she followed him into the dining room, at the sight before her. Dozens of candles winked back at her, from the credenza, across the fireplace mantel, and down her perfectly laid table. 

“Tut tut, my dear, none of that. Aren’t you the one who is such a stickler for traditions?”

He glanced meaningfully upwards, to the mantle of the doorway where she stood, where a ball of mistletoe was newly suspended. Her heart tugged as she leaned into him, letting him claim her lips softly. 

It appeared as though he was trying after all. 

She pulled the mask from his face and kissed him properly, which was all she’d ever been trying to do in the first place, kissed him until he pulled away, leading her by the hand to the table where he insisted she sit.

She squealed in delight when he popped the cork on a bottle of crémant, pouring her a glass before attending to his own. The hot soup he placed in front of her was the first thing she’d eaten all day, and if she moaned in pleasure at the richness of it, which she absolutely did, Christine thought she should be excused. Conversation was forgotten as she greedily spooned up mouthful after mouthful, barely paying attention to the way Erik refilled her wine glass. 

“Come now, my dear, drink up. I have a lovely Pouilly-Fume chilling in the wings for our next course.”

For the first time that evening she noticed the redness in her husband’s face. Erik had a pallid complexion at the best of times, if one took the time to notice anything past his lack of a nose and sunken cheeks, but now there were twin spots of rosy color blooming at his jutting cheekbones. His eyes, still bright with mischief, also appeared a bit glassy to her, and a slow smile spread on her face. 

“Erik, how much of that brandywine did you drink this evening?”

“If you have time to talk, you must be finished with your soup, my dear. On to the next course, shall we?”

He insisted she remained seated while he served her the next course, her Coquilles Saint-Jacques. After he poured the next wine he’d selected, he disappeared into the kitchen once more. 

A thought occurred to her as she sipped the Pouilly-Fume. ”Erik, when did you pick out all of these wines? Have you been sampling from your cellar all evening?”

Her eyes widened as he came out carrying a second small platter of ice. Spread across the ice chips were a dozen oysters on the half shell. She had told him about their being oysters at the réveillon feasts in her childhood, but she’d never been permitted to try them, and hadn’t included them tonight.

“Did you know, lovely girl, that oysters are thought to be an aphrodisiac?” he purred, his eyebrows raising suggestively as he deftly sliced the fleshy lump of meat away from one of the shells.

“Darling, I do believe you’re a bit drunk,” she giggled as he gave the bivalve a squeeze of lemon.

“Erik does not get _drunk_ , Christine,” he answered peevishly, holding up the shell. “Here we go, my love, your first réveillon oyster.”

She squealed and slurped, nearly choking, and collapsed in laughter against him once she’d gotten the slimy-sweet lump down, and she agreed, the whole experience was _very_ much an aphrodisiac. She wondered how amenable he would be to repenting for his earlier _transgressions_ later in their bedroom. From the way his hand lazily trailed down her back coming to rest on her hip, she suspected very amenable indeed.

Once they’d eaten their fill, she announced it was time for music, insisting he accompany her as she sang the hymns and holiday songs of her childhood. A new wine with her foie gras and roast beef, a few bites of roasted hen, then Erik declaring dramatically, wine glass sloshing in hand, that they would both surely expire if she forced anymore food upon them.

She _was_ uncomfortably full, she thought, again wondering if an indefinite stomach capacity was also a remnant of childish things past. She cut a single slice from the bûche de Noël for them to share in front of the fire as the brute filled them each a cup of his spiced brandywine. 

Wine lubricated his tongue, made him more open and affectionate, and Christine found she quite enjoyed this side to her normally quiet, staid husband, filing the information away for future good use. When she turned away from the ornate cake, she found he’d already adjourned to the music room without her. The tinkling sound of the piano greeted her as she stood in the doorway, and she paused, taking in the sight of him with a soft smile; bare face and head, as she preferred him, swaying slightly to the music he made.

“Do you have any idea how much your Erik loves you, my sweet Christine? I suspect you couldn’t possibly.”

Her eyes burned with tears again as she crossed to him. “If it’s half as much as I love my Erik, then I suspect it’s quite a bit.”

When she seated herself on the bench beside him, he pulled out a brightly wrapped parcel that had been sandwiched in between several scores. It was the perfect hiding spot, for Christine never tidied in this room, having previously experienced her husband’s spectacular temper, which was only very occasionally directed at her, over rearranging his mess of music sheets. 

“Only children open presents on Christmas,” she whispered.

“Well, Erik shall refrain from telling your newborn saviour our secret then.”

She smiled through tears once more. “Now you won’t have anything to give me on New Years, darling.”

“Oh, is _that_ what you think?” he snorted, draining the wineglass that had also accompanied him to the piano, and she laughed. Yes, she very much enjoyed her husband being somewhat in his cups.

The necklace was ornate, with open filigree and winking diamonds, and Christine wickedly thought she might invite Juliette round for tea to show it off. Long, graceful fingers fastened it around her throat before cool, soft lips pressed to the back of her neck.

“Merry Christmas, my sweet Christine.”

Her eyes slipped shut, and for a silent moment she breathed in the warmth of the room. Somehow, owing little to her, it had turned out to be a perfect night. Different in nearly every way from her childhood, yet perfect just the same.

“ _My_ Erik...Merry Christmas, darling.”

The crackling fire was the only sound in the room for a long moment and she felt herself begin to drift into a warm, contented sleep against his shoulder.

“How do you suppose a babe managed to amass twelve acolytes each bearing a signature dessert in one night, hmm? Isn’t he meant to be newly whelped?”

His voice tickled at her ear as long fingers trailed over the swell of her breast.

“You are a _wicked_ man!” she cried, awake and laughing once more. “How did I marry such a blasphemous villain?!”

“My dear,” he purred, pressing his lips to the side of her neck, before nudging her chin up to the ceiling where another ball of mistletoe was suspended. 

“You should know very well...” 

His hands were suddenly under her skirt, sliding up her stockinged legs. Christine dropped her head back with a sigh, feeling as though she was that green girl in her pretty peach dressing room once more, having an unorthodox lesson with her angel. Any moment now and his long fingers would reach their heated destination, _distracting_ her from holiday piousness with carnal delight...instead, his fingers alighted to that insanely ticklish spot behind her knees, pinning her against him as she shrieked at his unrelenting ministrations.

“...every good story needs a good villain.”


	2. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gift takes place several weeks before _Distractions_ , written for the POTO Advent calendar on Tumblr

The dress was brand new, far grander than anything else in her wardrobe, and Christine loved it.

According to management, it was the expectation of every girl in the world Opera's employ to have one evening dress that could be worn to gala events, where they would rub elbows and entertain the wealthy patrons. It would not do to have members of the corps de ballet and the chorus looking as though they lived hand-to-mouth, after all, even if many of them did.

She was to sing a small solo piece at a late summer gala that evening and was a nervous wreck; seeing that her appearance, at least, was not a cause for concern was a tremendous weight off her shoulders.

The seamstress had just finished her work, adding a few green and pink rosettes to the draped bands at her shoulders, as she turned and took in her reflection in the full-length mirror. Pale green silk, accented with the softest pink, barely a whisper of color, with several lines of rosettes adorning the softly draped neckline. A dramatic décolletage, draping swags of pink chiffon at the bustle, and tiny roses everywhere...Christine felt like a fairy queen.

It wasn't until she entered the Opera House later that day that the true panic set in. There were people  _everywhere_. What tentative bravado she had felt fled, leaving her gasping and trembling in her little peach-colored dressing room.

She couldn't do this, she was simply not ready!

"Angel," she whimpered pitifully, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing for nothing more than Erik's presence to calm her. She needed him there, needed him to reassure her, to ensure that she was in good voice, to soothe her with his unshakable confidence...it was hardly a surprise when his fingertips lightly alighted on the sides of her arms moments later.

If there was a single constant in her relationship with her odd teacher, it was that no matter the circumstance, when she needed him, he was there.

"Calm yourself, my dear."

Erik's voice, always so steady and strong, was was a plush curtain of black velvet. As it enveloped her, Christine felt her head drop back slightly against the solid plane of his chest. Her eyes remained closed and she focused on her steadying her breathing as the security of that voice curled around her.

She couldn't explain the reason, nor when precisely it had started happening, but as of late she would experience an odd twist low in her stomach whenever she was in her maestro's presence. The pressure would be joined by a shiver up her back, particularly when he touched her, which was admittedly not often.

Her nose caught the unique blend of kerosene and spice and dampness that she had come to associate with her teacher; her head unconsciously rolling against his shoulder to breathe it in deeper when she became aware of her actions and froze. Erik, meanwhile, had grown very still as she arched against him. Christine realized that in that moment, her wildly beating heart had little to do with her nerves over that night's performance.

The spell was broken when he gently pulled away and cleared his throat.

"Come, my dear, let us ensure you're in good voice."

After thoroughly working through her upper passaggio until the notes moved effortlessly, Christine turned to face her angel with a grateful smile. It wasn't until she moved to face him that it happened.

Erik froze.

The words he had been speaking about minding her shoulders died in his mouth, leaving a heavy silence hanging between them. His jaw had dropped, leaving him gaping at her like a fish. His eyes, the color of autumn honey, had widened, blinking rapidly. The abrupt change would have been comical, if Christine were not worried he was suffering from an apparent fit. When she took a step forward in concern, he quickly stepped back, as though he needed to escape her, and she felt color flood her cheeks as time itself ground to a halt.

A stillness had descended upon the small room, and the peach fleur des lis wallpaper, so pretty and comforting normally, seemed to take on a warm, reddish glow, raising the temperature until Christine felt heat pickle down her chest.

Erik's eyes dragged slowly up her form, taking in her new dress inch by inch.

She could not tell if he was pleased by what he saw, for the black mask he always wore concealed most of his features, but from what she could determine, he was experiencing some sort of apoplexy.

Christine did not take it as a good sign.

"Is...is my dress not appropriate?" she squeaked in a small voice, fearing his answer. She didn't have another dress, after all, and they'd spent a good bit of money having this one turned, and-

"You are...absolutely  _breathtaking_ , my Christine," he choked out at last, pulling his eyes away from her décolleté. "There is no goddess who could rival your beauty this night."

The air in the room seemed to dissipate as heat suffused her cheeks.  _His Christine_. She didn't know why his words affected her so, but it was the first time her angel had addressed her as such, was the first time  _any_  man had called her "his" and she swayed where she stood.

"I...I need to see the hairdresser," she somehow managed to stutter out, feeling like a clumsy-tongued child in the wake of his compliment.

The swooping sensation in her stomach had returned in force, and she found herself suddenly desperate to be out of that room, away from him and the indefinable way she felt.

After the performance, once she'd returned to her dressing room, floating on a cloud after the applause, she'd found a bouquet of fat English roses of the palest pink on her dressing table.

_Bravissima_

_~E_

Christine recognized the spidery, spindly writing on the small card immediately as belonging to her angel.

Suddenly the bouquets of tight red and yellow rosebuds she'd been handed by the managers and several of the patrons, including one from a mustachioed young man who seemed vaguely familiar, all seemed terribly garish and ill-thought. The red clashed horribly with her dress, unlike the lush, fragrant bloom she held to her nose then.

In the days and weeks that followed, Erik never mentioned the roses or her performance, beyond critiquing what he felt she could improve, and in time, she had forgotten the entire incident. If she occasionally woke in her bed in the middle of the night feeling short of breath and overheated, with the certainty that she'd been dreaming of  _someone_ , someone whose face was nondescript in her waking memory, she thought little of it.

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Winter had swept into the city seemingly overnight, and the memory of that gala seemed so very distant now. Her days, when not at the opera, were filled with baking fragrant gingerbread and other Christmas treats for the upcoming holidays. Mamma had insisted she wanted to accompany Christine in shopping, and so they had been out and about several times over the last several weeks.

Today Christine did not need to be at the theater, and so she and Mamma Valerius left their little flat, her guardian gripping her arm tightly as they slowly navigated in and out of several shops, braving and braced against the cold.

There were very few people she would exchange gifts with, come New Year, having no family other than Mamma, and pitiful few friends. There was one  _particular_  person for whom she wanted to purchase something, and she felt at her wit's end fretting over what exactly to give him.

Christine was unable to explain her behavior around her maestro, why a squirming nervousness seemed to grip her when he was near, only to be replaced with a sense of vague emptiness when he left. Erik was a man unlike any other, generous with both his time and talent, requiring no recompense for her lessons, and Christine very badly wanted to gift him with something for the holidays.

But what?!

A fine wine? She knew next to nothing about wines, and Erik was a refined gentleman who certainly had a well-stocked cellar of his own. It was unlikely she could afford any vintage that would not have been a rank vinegar to him.

She thought perhaps a ream of high quality paper might be useful, as she knew he must go through quite a bit of it whilst composing, but the idea of handing over a parcel of paper seemed so...impersonal!

It made her blush to consider that she wanted to give him a gift that was  _personal_ , but he had simply become too important a figure in her life to think elseways. Finding the perfect Christmas present would simply be her way of thanking him for helping her on her career path.  _That's all...nothing more_ , Christine told herself firmly.

"Mathilde! Good heavens, how long has it been?!"

The man in the doorway of the shop next door to the one she and Mamma were exiting called out to them gaily, and the older woman exclaimed in surprised happiness.

Christine found herself looking around the shop as Mamma and the man, Monsieur Bertrand, reminisced. Monsieur Bertrand was a photographer, and his shelves were lined with samples of his work. Christine had paused in front of a tintype of a young woman in formal dress, posing demurely.

"Éduoard, you remember Christine, of course...my dear, I do think I'd like to have a portrait of you done for the holidays. I don't have anything other that a little tintype when you were just a girl!"

"Christine, of course! Our little singing Christmas angel at all those parties! My dear, you've become a beautiful young woman."

She blushed at Monsieur Bertrand's words, but quickly turned her attention back to Mamma's.

"Could we truly?"

The older woman went on about how lovely Christine's blue dress with Swedish lace edging would be, and that they ought to make an appointment right then, making a move to take out her purse.

"Do you have a changing room, Monsieur Bertrand?" she asked as the assistant at the counter wrote up a sales slip. When the man answered in the affirmative, she hurried to the where Mamma stood and pulled her own coin purse from her reticule. "I'd like to purchase one as well, I think."

He had come up behind her as she worked through a credenza in her last lesson, placing a light hand to her back to adjust her posture. Christine had reacted, to her everlasting horror, like a spoiled house cat, arching beneath his hand and leaning into his touch. For the space of a heartbeat, Erik had responded by pulling her flush against him, breathing deeply at her neck.

In less than an instant he'd been back in front of her, lecturing her on raising her soft palate. Were it not for the rush of heat felt throughout her body, the tingles he left in his wake, she might have thought she'd imagined the entire thing. That night she had tossed and turned in uneasy sleep, feeling as though she could still feel the long line of his body against her own.

Although it was most likely terribly vain of her, Christine had a suspicion, perhaps foolishly, that a small portrait of herself in her gown with the pink rosettes would be a gift her maestro would appreciate. It would be a lovely way to commemorate her gala debut, all thanks to his masterful tutelage.

...And if he happened to enjoy the look of her in the dress, she thought as her cheeks flamed scarlet, remembering his effusive praise that night, all the better.

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The wait until the Christmas holiday seemed interminable after that. Christmas would fall over the weekend, so she waited until her final lesson that week with Erik to present him with the gift. She had brought it with her to the Opera that morning, stowing the wrapped parcel in the drawer of her dressing table before rehearsal.

Erik had seemed particularly agitated throughout her lesson that day, restlessly pacing in front of her and fiddling with his hands as she sang. She watched in fascination as he flexed one long, bony digit at a time, elegantly unfurling them only to curl back in on themselves. Christine had finished the aria she was working on, had finished some minutes ago, but he stood in silence, staring distractedly into nothing.

She had begun to wonder if he even remembered she was in the room when his posture suddenly straightened. Nodding to himself as though he'd reached some internal decision, Erik turned to face her with a resolute set to his shoulders.

"Christine, this is your last lesson until after the New Year," he reminded her slowly.

The opera would be closed over the Christmas holiday, it was true. There would be a ball on New Year's Eve, but as she had no suitor, Christine would not be attending. She would not return to the Opera house until rehearsals resumed the week after the ball, once a new production was underway.

"Christine must...Erik hopes you have a restful holiday, my dear. Try to stay out of this dreadful weather as much as you're able, this cold air is not good for your voice. Erik shall be displeased if Christine returns to him croaking like a little toad from illness."

Smiling softly, she promised she would do so. The angel of music  _was_  very strict, after all. Turning to her dressing table to retrieve the paper-wrapped parcel, Christine realized she did so with suddenly trembling hands. When she turned, he stood just a few paces behind her, clutching a small, paper-wrapped box in his own white-knuckled hands.

"This is…" Erik trailed off, swallowing hard before continuing, and Christine felt a familiar bunching in her stomach. "A token for you, my dear. For all you have achieved...Erik wishes Christine a happy New Year...I look forward to all I know you shall accomplish in the coming months."

The small box he held out to her was wrapped in brown paper and wound with red twine. Christine accepted it with still shaking hands. "May I open it?" she asked excitedly. Deciding to interpret his silence as approval, she gently slid her nail under the line of paper, loosening the paste that secured it. A small, flat black jewelry box, its interior lined with smooth white satin.

The necklace was more beautiful than anything Christine thought she'd ever seen, was certainly more beautiful than anything she'd ever expected to own. Attached to the fine gold chain was a pale, shell-pink disk encased in a golden oval. Upon the pink face was a delicate, ivory-pink rose, carved in relief.

She should not accept this,  _could_  not accept something so fine, so clearly expensive, from a man who was not courting her to marry…

"Will you help me put it on?" she heard herself ask breathlessly.

His light touch was cool at the back of her neck, and she shivered. A featherweight touch over her collarbone then across her shoulders…the smell and touch and presence of him overwhelmed her.

Drifting to her dressing table as if in a dream, Christine examined her reflection in the glass, fingering the delicate chain. The necklace was stunning.

"Thank you, Erik," she whispered, knowing he would hear her.

"Ahem, yes...enjoy your holiday, my dear."

She saw in the reflection over her shoulder that he was turning away, presumably to leave, and she shook herself out of the trance his touch had put her in.

"Erik, wait! I-I have something for you as well."

She should have been used to it by then, the way Erik could seemingly stop breathing and turn to stone, but it never failed to alarm her, if she were to be completely honest.

"For...Erik? Sweet Christine wants to give Erik…a gift?"

The shudder that ran through her then nearly took her off her feet, and she thought that she might need to speak to management about the temperature fluxuations, as her dressing room was suddenly unbearably warm.

_Sweet Christine_

"It's...it's nothing really, you'll probably think it silly." She gave an awkward little laugh, coming forward with her parcel.

Long, elegant fingers picked at the tie with all of the precision of a surgeon, until at last the paper fell away.

Monsieur Bertrand had convinced her to purchase a cabinet card photograph; mounted on heavy cardstock, the photograph could be framed or displayed as it was. Erik remained silent, staring down at her obviously ill-thought gift for several minutes, and as the silence stretched, Christine felt her heart perilously climbing its way up her chest to lodge in her throat once more.

"As I said, I know it's sill-"

"There is no finer gift any man has ever received." His voice; that velvet-thick, curling voice was low and reverent as he lifted the photograph slowly.

She had stopped at a florist on the way to the photographer on the day of her appointment, had a small tussie mussie of fat pink roses made. Her hair, pinned up neatly for the photograph for Mamma, had been partially released, spilling a tumble of golden curls down her back. A single pink rose, so very like the ones in the bouquet he'd gifted her, had been slipped into the still-pinned crown of her hair. She still blushed over her décolletage in the dress, but Monsieur Bertrand had posed her perfectly, and she had been pleased with the finished results.

The Christine in the photograph smiled softly, clutching her tiny bouquet in front of her. Erik's fingertip gently caressed her jaw, and the Christine standing at his side felt the phantom touch against her own skin with a shiver.

"I-I need to go," she blurted. "It's getting dark so quickly and Mamma will be worried, and-" she cut off, realizing she was babbling as heat flooded her cheeks.

Erik nodded solemnly. "Put on your cloak and wrap up your throat, my dear. Exit through the side entrance on the Rue Scribe. I shall meet you there."

There was a brougham in the road when she left the Opera a short while later. Erik pulled from a dark alcove on the side of the building, offering a gloved had to assist her into the carriage.

"Thank you for the necklace, Erik," she blurted. "It's exquisite and I adore it."

"Not nearly as exquisite as the beauty captured on film. I shall treasure this always, my Christine."

The gentle pressure of his hand nearly turned her inside out. She still could not define this feeling, the way her insides felt positively liquified in his presence...but she was very glad she had given him perfect Christmas gift.

"Merry Christmas, Erik."

It had begun to snow softly, and the horse whickered its displeasure at still being made to stand there. She still gripped his fingers in her own small hand, watching as a layer of white began to build on the brim of his hat.

Christmas was just two days away, and she wondered how her strange teacher would be spending it. Did he have family and friends with which he could relax and be merry? Erik spoke very rarely of himself, but somehow, Christine did not think so. Her heart joined her stomach in its bunching twist, but before the ill-prepared invitation could cross her lips, he was pulling away.

A line had been crossed, she knew.  _His Christine_. She did not know what would happen next, but when she came back to the opera in two weeks, she knew things would not be the same.

"Merry Christmas, my sweet Christine."

The brougham abruptly lurched to a start moving her away from the shadow of a man, into the snowy evening as church bells sounded across the white-covered city.


	3. Meine Ruh' ist hin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confused Opera Ghost's thoughts, takes place within the timeframe of The Gift, shortly before Christmas; written for a Tumblr prompt
> 
> *verges on an M rating*

A confused Opera Ghost's thoughts, takes place within the timeframe of The Gift, shortly before Christmas; written for a Tumblr prompt

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An Evening of Lieder—a glittering, gala-style event for the opera's patrons; a special evening for those well-heeled Parisians who attended the opera simply to see and be seen, who cared little about the musical program that had been carefully selected and meticulously prepared.

She had been resplendent, of course.

Management had, wisely, dispensed with the use of costumery for the evening, allowing the company to perform in evening dress, and his sweet Christine had outshone the lot of them. Her golden curls burned like the sun, her sapphire eyes widening with emotion in the center of the stage, as she remembered her lover's kiss.  _Gretchen am Spinnrade_  was the piece he'd selected for her, _rasch bewegt_ , and, like the costumes, management had sagely listened to his performative suggestions.

The soft peach color of her borrowed gown had made her eyes sparkle, and Erik had very nearly exposed himself to view when she had taken the stage. The auditorium seemed to hold its breath, for even the fools in attendance—over privileged twats, every one of them: crooked businessmen and gluttonous fools, stuffed into their tailored suits, their equally plump and haughty wives on their arms; callow, mincing young men like that empty-headed prat de Chagny, intent on bamboozling petit rats into their beds—even they remembered the fair Titania who'd graced the stage of the summer gala.

_His_  Christine in her rosette-bedecked gown; his sweet Christine, turning her face up to his box as the applause rose around her,  _his_!

Her voice had shimmered despite her early nerves, had soared over the heads of the unworthy fools in the audience, directly to  _him_ , to his box and his heart and his lungs, leaving him barely able to draw breath, so overcome he was by the perfect, crystal purity of her voice, her beauty, her smile— _his_  smile, for she smiled at him so regularly that he'd stopped thinking it was an unconscious, accidental action on her part.

He'd been unable to go to her that night, too overcome by the desire he'd felt, untrusting of his ability to control his base, animal lust.

Once she'd left the stage, he'd staggered from his box, traveling through the concealed passage within the walls, had left the flowers he'd acquired for her on her dressing table. He'd not trusted himself not to take her there—right there, in her little dressing room where they spent so many hours secluded together—but he'd stayed to watch, unable to make the descent back to his personal Tartarus without at least seeing her smile.

There had been several bouquets in her arms when she'd entered the room, smiling winsomely once the door had closed behind her. If he'd only known then what a persistently annoying gnat that damnable boy would prove to become in the following months, he would have ensured that the de Chagny women would be bedecked in the finest black crepes and silks for months yet to come. It hadn't mattered that night, and so he'd paid the boy little mind. The bouquet of tight red rose buds the gnat had pressed into his angel's arms had been abandoned with the others she'd carried, once she saw the flowers  _he_  had left for her.

The color was not what he would have chosen, would have preferred to proclaim his passionate adoration with the deepest, darkest crimson the florist stocked…but the fair blush pink favored her dress. Her lovely dress, covered in tiny rosettes, soft and delicate and perfect…instead he'd chosen the fattest English roses the florist had carried, thick and swollen with hundreds of velvety-soft petals, glistening water dribbling across their unmarred perfection, leaking from their center as the harried florist wrapped them quickly for the strange man who refused to leave the shadows.

When she'd lifted one of the roses,  _his_  roses, to her small nose and smiled, he'd barely been able to prevent a sob from escaping his throat, forcing his knuckles against his teeth until he tasted the metallic tang of blood, the wrenching of his heart warring with the painful, heavy ache in his loins. His sweet Christine had trailed the bloated bloom over her porcelain cheek to her soft, pink lips, undoubtedly catching a drop of the moisture that still glistened wetly from the petals. He'd staggered back into the Stygian darkness that night hunched in desire and twisted with misery, wreaking havoc on the furniture in his poor drawing room the instant he'd finished wringing the lust from his body.

It had been several months since that night, but the memory of that dress and the way it had clung to her soft, feminine curves lived behind his eyes every time he blinked, setting his blood ablaze.

The curtain rose again, heavy red velvet, brocaded in gold, and there she was. His angel,  _his_  sweet Christine. He'd been unable to help himself from drifting to the front of the box, from wrapping his white, spider-like hand along velvet edge, his heart climbing to his throat and blood engorging his cock as the frantic music began and his angel began to sing.

_Meine Ruh' ist hin,_

_Mein Herz ist schwer,_

Controlled emotion, the phantom treadle keeping her grounded as she began Gretchen's lament. Her effortless composure would have made him proud, had he not arched in wicked desire at her first notes, electricity thrumming through him.  _My peace is gone…_ He hadn't known a day's peace since the first moment he'd heard her, since he'd first heard that flawless instrument and had seen the inexorable sadness of her eyes, since she'd begun to press herself to his light touch as he corrected her posture or adjusted her stance.

_Ich finde sie nimmer_

_Und nimmermehr_

He would never know peace again, not while they existed in this confusing, tormented state. The girl confounded him. There were moments, he was sure of it, when she seemed to lean in to him during their lessons, seemed to  _invite_  his touch, to breathe him in!…but just as quickly she'd be backing away, her brilliant eyes flashing in panic and distress. He didn't understand what she wanted from him and it was  _maddening_.

_Mein armer Sinn_

_Ist mir zerstückt_

Maddening! His mind felt shattered by her actions, by her inconsistency. Had he not always behaved the perfect gentleman? He took pains to touch her as little as possible, to keep temptation at bay, lest he give into the insidious voice in his head, urging him to bend her over her little dressing table and quench the fire that plagued him, to seek solace in her clenching velvet core.

The room pitched as the treadle spun on, his unraveling sanity cast about the auditorium until his madness and desire at that moment were reflected back a thousand times in the refracted light of the chandelier and the unconscious canting of his hips. How desperately he wanted to pull her against him, to feel those soft curves pressed to his hideousness! He would drop to his knees like a penitent before her and worship her with his mouth, would drink from her chalice of absolution until she'd cleansed him of a lifetime of sin, would be a dog at her feet for the rest of his days!

_Und seiner Rede_

_Zauberfluss_

_This_ , he reminded himself then, as Gretchen recalled her lover's voice and words… _this_  magic they shared, the music  _they_  shared. No one else could share music with her the way  _he_  did, the way they did together! Fire raced through his veins as he clung to the velvet-draped rail, Christine's voice climbing higher, the turgid evidence of his adoration for that beauty upon the stage hot and straining against its confines, higher and higher she sang, faster the treadle spun!

_Sein Händedruck_

_Und ach, sein Kuss_!

To touch her! To hold her, to kiss her! A single kiss, to kiss his sweet Christine! Surely misery would leave him and he could die the happiest of men, if only he could claim her kiss! The franticness of her voice reached a fevered pitch, her eyes, bright blue eyes locked with his as if she knew, knew he was there, knew how he burned!

_Und küssen ihn_

_So wie ich wollt'_

_An seinen Küssen_

_Vergehen sollt'!_

To perish in her kiss! To touch her velvet-soft skin, the rosy pink of her, her throat, her lips! To give himself willingly to that fire, faster now, to immolation in her kiss, ever faster, to kiss Christine,  _his_ Christine! Sweet Christine!

_An seinen Küssen_

_Vergehen sollt'!_

His back arched as she reached the pinnacle of Gretchen's anguish, his ghastly mouth frozen in a soundless scream of ecstasy the mirrored the look on his angel's face, the tight tension of the lied exploding; rapture in F major, pulsing light and his angel's face, soft and pink and perfect.

_Meine Ruh' ist hin,_

_Mein Herz ist schwer,_

The treadle's decent back to steady spinning made him slump, spent, woeful resignation in D minor once more. His peace was gone, would always be gone.

_Ich finde sie nimmer_

_Und nimmermehr_

A cold stickiness made him shift as the curtain lowered once more, her eyes flashing up to his box as she curtseyed before she was ushered out of sight. His peace was gone. He would never find peace again, not if they continued on like this.

"Brava, my sweet Christine," he whispered through clenched teeth, taking a moment to steady himself before dragging his weary bones back to darkness, alone.


	4. Drunk

Takes place a year or so after the events in Réveillon; written for Rscoil on Tumblr; prompt: things you said while drunk

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The heavy oak door clicked shut at last, and the diva, still in her wig and costume and painted face, sagged against it.

A bevy of voices could still be heard upon the other side, moving down the hall: a giggling chorus of sisters from a large, wealthy family, the robust laughter of the managers as they rubbed elbows with their patrons, and the fracturous voice of an older gentleman who was quite insistent that he be granted an audience with the leading lady. It was not the first time the man had appeared at her door, and Christine was displeased to see him there again tonight, particularly after the last time.

On that occasion, he had deigned to put his hands on her, had wrapped a meaty palm around her slender wrist and held tight, insisting he was to accompany her to supper.

The man's timing was poorly planned. She was already in sour spirits that evening:  _Manon_  was not her favorite role to perform, and she had been unhappy with her performance. Additionally, several technical flubs had occurred throughout the show, adding to the entire company's relief when the final curtain had at last come down. She had kept her composure throughout, never batting an eye when the wrong set piece had been wheeled out as she sang, and her  _Je marche sur tous les chemins_ went on as if it were meant to be sung with the egyptian pyramid before her. She had smiled beatifically as she took her bows with the company, had been gracious to the admirers at her door, but the moment the man's hand clamped around her wrist, her patience and good humour had withered and fled like the moon on a stormy night.

She had been a green girl once, eager to please and self-conscious of her actions around the wealthy elite who attended the opera, but several years of marriage and all that had transpired between had broken her of that.

"The diva's supper plans are accounted for," she'd gritted through a tight smile, attempting to dislodge the man's grip. When his hand tightened, her smile had flattened out. His grip was thick and clammy, nothing at all like the cool, delicate hold of her husband's long, elegant fingers, and she'd tugged in vain once more. "A thousand apologies for the disappointment, but if monsieur does not remove his hand at once, the diva assures him her husband will be most willing to assist him. Rémy, would you be a darling and jot down the directions to the nearest hospital for monsieur? Preferably one with a surgeon on call."

It was the closest she'd ever come to confirming the whispers that occasionally still followed her, but the latent threat had been enough, the stupefied managers sprang into action. Her wrist had been released and the odious man shuffled down the hallway, as Rémy and Monsieur Gabriel cleared the vestibule of onlookers. Sequestered in her little peach-colored dressing room at last, she'd dropped to her little tufted pouf with a beleaguered sigh, leaning back against the solid presence that appeared behind her just a heartbeat later. He'd removed her wig carefully, beginning the arduous task of removing the endless amount of pins from her bound curls in silence, a task he liked to undertake himself.

"If there is a single mark on your wrist," he'd murmured lightly, once the last pin had dropped with a  _plink!_  into the little bowl on her dressing table, pausing to lift his mask and bury his face in her hair, breathing deeply, "I shall be obliged to remove the offending fingers from his hand."

She had merely laughed, stretching her neck to give him better access to kiss her. When the feather-light touch of his fingers moved over her collarbone to ghost across the top of her breast, she had pressed her hand to his, encouraging him to cup the swell of her there. He'd worn the mask that showed his mouth that night, the one she preferred, and she'd taken advantage of the boon, stretching further to kiss his thin lower lip. "Take me home," she'd whispered against him, "and make me forget this night."

As the voices drifted down the hall, Christine sighed once more, moving to sit before the small mirror at her dressing table. She would need to address this man's continued presence with management, but for the time being, she was content to bask in the peace and quiet of her dressing room, the same one she'd had all those years ago, at her insistence, and enjoy her husband's quiet, devoted care.

If only her husband had been present.

Christine opened her eyes and scowled at her reflection in the empty room. Her dresser knew to leave the diva be, knew Christine preferred to have time alone after a performance before she needed tending to, if she needing assistance at all. Erik was quite adept at helping her out of her costumes, after all, and knew to work quickly so that things could be restored to their proper positions in wardrobe. She was leaving her spot on the bench to open the door, signaling that she'd require Agnés' assistance that night after all, when a muffled thump sounded from the other side of the wall.

Christine jumped, whirling towards the noise. Her mind instantly conjured a dozen different scenarios, each worse than the last: Erik injured, bleeding, too weak to call out for her. It could be his heart or his hip, he might have rolled an ankle on a loose stone and tumbled down the stairs! Her hands clawed ineffectually at the mechanism on the wall, her vision blurred by the tears that welled in her eyes at the thought of him being injured. After all they'd been through, after all they'd suffered and laid to rest, the trials and the tears and forgiveness, to lose him now, like this, in some foolhardy accident would simply be too much for her to bear!

It was therefore a great shock when the wall panel swung open a moment later. He was there, alive and upright, not visibly bleeding or injured in any way! Christine nearly sobbed in relief as she stepped back, allowing him entry into the room.

Long, white fingers clutched around the edge of the wall, clumsier than usual, gripping for support she'd never witnessed him needing before. When his foot raised to move over the wall and hung there, fear gripped her once more. Erik was never unsure of his steps, never stumbled or held the wall for support, never! Yet here he was, doing all of the above, before her very eyes!

His eyes cast around the floor once he was finally in the room and her forehead wrinkled at his perplexing behavior.

"I seem to have lost my hat."

His plush, velvety voice came out in a mumble as he looked around the small room, evidently expecting his missing hat to materialize before him there.

"Darling, what's happened?! Are you hurt?" She swept to his side, patting him down, determined to find the source of his injury.  _He's brain addled, he must have fallen and struck his head, that's the only explanation..._

"N-nonsense, Christine. Erik has never been hurt a day in his life, and he doesn't intend to start now."

She happened to know that was categorically untrue, had mapped the length and breadth of his long, lean body with her lips, and knew every inch of it was covered in scars. He stepped away from her seeking hands, one foot crossing over the other in a haphazard gait, and her concern grew.

There was a peculiar scent coming from him as he spoke, she noticed, quite different from the fougère he normally favored. Sharp and bitter, with a hint of...anise? Licorice?  _Absinthe_ , her mind supplied as she leaned up to smell his breath, instantly being transported to the back kitchen room of the Valerius' home, where the small household staff would gather to play cards and partake of the green fairy.

Her darling husband was not catastrophically injured, was not ill in any way, she realized. The brute was drunk.  _Drunk_!

She swatted at his chest furiously. "Erik, you're drunk! You had me worried sick! You're  _always_  here after my performance and I thought something terrible must have—" She cut off on a gasp. "My performance! You-you missed the whole thing! Off drinking, no thought at all for your poor wife, no concern over how she's to get out of this blasted dress on her own with no help from you or—"

Her voice gave out on a squeak when she was abruptly dragged to his lap on the divan. His hands were everywhere at once it seemed: pulling at the highly styled wig that was still atop her head, gripping her stockinged ankle, smoothing over her breast to pluck at her bodice ties.

"Erik does not get  _drunk_ ," he grumbled, and she laughed, think of how he'd uttered those words at her before. "And besides, Sweet Christine should know well that no state of inebriation could ever keep Erik from removing her dress."

She was certain her laughter could be heard all the way down the hallway as she clung to his neck, his uncoordinated fingers working at the stays at her back. Christine wasn't sure how other women managed without such laughter in their lives. So many of the ladies she knew were married to dour-faced men with no light in their eyes. Erik might not have had the handsome countenance he craved, but his honey-gold eyes were always alight with mischief, and his little half-smile was never far. She had laughed every day since he'd put the slim gold band on her finger, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

True to his word, the dress was removed with only a little trouble, although the pins in her hair took a bit more time. As the pins were removed slowly, with unusually clumsy fingers, the story came out.

"It was that great ape's ass of a Persian," he groused, reaching for and missing her hair.

It was an anniversary, she realized as he spoke, an anniversary of some happening in her husband's past that he'd shared with the Persian man. A past event he would never disclose to her, and she, at long last, knew better than to ask.

It used to hurt her deeply, knowing that Erik would take his secrets to the grave with him someday, but over time she'd come to realize that some things were too painful to share. She could force them out—secrets and nightmares with broken, jagged edges, slicing him to ribbons upon their exit—for she knew he'd not deny her...but somewhere along the line she'd come to realize that her burning curiosity was a distant second place priority to not causing him anymore pain.

Her curiosity, after all, had already brought them enough trouble.

And, she thought with a smile, her husband going off and spending the evening drinking with his friend was quite possibly the most normal, mundane way the night could have possibly ended. Wasn't that was she'd always claimed to want? The Persian man lived somewhere on the rue de Rivoli, perhaps her brute ought to return to the man's side and see out this reminiscing that was apparently painful enough to require such copious amounts of alcohol.

The man was not permitted to seek them at their home, and as far as Christine knew, he did not know where it was. He'd attempted, once, after she'd returned to the Garnier, to seek her out and earn an invite to their home, to  _check in_  on her welfare.

"I owed you a debt once, monsieur," she'd told him at her dressing room door. "Once, when you were a stranger on the other side of a wall I owed you a debt."

"That debt was repaid, mademoiselle." His jade colored eyes were pleading, his hands twisting in supplication. Christine had remained unmoved. "Repaid that same night, for I owe you my life!"

"I agree. I'm not that girl anymore, monsieur. I pity you if you're still the same man. As a patron of the opera, you're more than welcome to offer your congratulations on the evening's performance, but I caution you against seeking me out at my home...and it's Madame, which I think you already know."

"Maybe you should have stayed," she cut in then, raising her eyes to meet Erik's in the mirror. "Erik? Perhaps you should—"

"Erik is right where he belongs, darling girl," he interrupted her firmly. "It does no good to wake ghosts." His eyes left hers in the mirror and she sighed, knowing she'd not be able to change his mind.

It was her turn to order the carriage that would wait for them at the side exit, and to help him into his coat. The wayward hat had been retrieved from the mouth of the corridor opening, a bit dusty, but not too worse for wear. Christine snuggled into his side as the brougham lurched away into the night.

"I do love you so, my sweet Christine," he murmured into her hair. His rich, curling voice had a dreaminess to it, and she wondered how much of this conversation he'd remember in the morning. "I love our home. A simple little box, just like everyone else. No blood there, no horrors...only you."

He would definitely not remember this in the morning, she thought, as tears pricked her eyes, remembering.

_Now I want to live like everybody else._

"Although," he mused suddenly, lifting his head from the back of the brougham, "I shall need to check on him by the week's end. No sense in waiting until the smell overtakes the cellar. I daresay the rats will do a job on the body, but it will do no good to have a foul odour wafting to your dressing room."

Christine was reminded, as she gaped at her husband, that she only ever understood half of the words that came out of his mouth. "Erik, what do you mean you'll need to check the cellar, what's in—" Another gasp escaped her, and she wondered how long she would need to be married to him before she stopped feeling shocked by the unconscionable things he did. "You took him down below? And you-you  _left_  him there?!"

The brougham had pulled to a stop, and she realized they were home, in front of their lovely little house, on a lovely little street, completely average and unextraordinary.

The Persian man, she'd decided, would keep until morning. As she fished through her reticule for her small keyring, the ringing laughter of a very drunk opera ghost echoed down the cobbles, haunting the night.


	5. Secrets

Distractions AU—takes place around the same timeframe as 'Drunk'; from the POV of someone else in the household; written for Tumblr prompt: starlight;  _Share a secret_

_._

* * *

_._

There was a cashmere throw in her basket by the fire.

It kept her warm enough, she supposed, particularly in combination with the other soft fabrics which lined the basket, on those nights when she would be left alone in the big, echoing room. Papa would rejoin her after a time, some nights, and she would follow him down the stairs to the room with the big table that made a cacophony when she leapt upon it, which she quite enjoyed doing; or else she would settle in his lap while he read by the fire, before she would be returned to the basket with her cashmere throw.

Despite that, it was not her favorite.

She had accumulated baskets all through the house, each bearing soft piles of fabric and hand-stitched mice, although it was in garden shed where she kept  _it_. Her most hidden treasure, which she kept in secret.

She had taken it from the wardrobe.

Her mistress had been singing as she sat at her little table next to the wardrobe, piling her hair onto her head.

She was not permitted to jump on  _this_  table. The bottles of liquids and jars of creams did little to hold her interest anyway, although the scattered, sparkling baubles which rested in a small box occasionally called out to her, begging to be batted off the table's edge and perhaps secreted under the bed until she could find a better hiding spot for them, but Mistress would be cross, and she didn't especially like to be scolded.

She'd watched from her basket in the corner of the room as mistress rose, opening the wardrobe before adjoining to the water room, a place she did  _not_  like, and avoided at all costs.

It was then that she saw  _it_. The wardrobe door left ajar, leaving the long, appealing looking tail hanging out, whispering to her to take a closer look. The knotted fringes resembled the tails on her stitched mice, and tickled her nose when she examined them closer. It was  _soft_. Softer than her cashmere throw, softer even than Mistress's cloak, which she occasionally managed to batt off its hook and snuggle into before the inevitable discovery of her misdeed. It was soft and sweet smelling and  _forbidden_ , and as she buried her claws into it, testing its malleability and finding it pleasantly loose, she knew she must have it.

It was easy to loosen from the peg, once she'd leapt onto an interior shelf. Getting it out of the room was a touch more difficult, as it dragged long and loose behind her, but she was able to tug it out the door and down the hall. Once she'd reached the steps, she'd hesitated in indecision. If she brought it to any of her baskets, it was bound to be discovered and taken from her...unless…

The garden shed was a ways from the house, and although she was not strictly prohibited from entering, it was frowned upon, after her collection of half-eaten mice and disemboweled birds was discovered. Mistress almost never went there though, and she thought it was the safest place to hide her treasure. Stealing down the steps, she silently slipped out of the house, dragging her prize.

.

.

The moon had turned several times since the day she'd made off with her treasure, and she made a point to visit it often.

The knotted bundles at the ends of the tail had been easy to shred, and the whole thing had since been reduced to a pile of soft strings that she loved to roll in, tangling the crimson strands between her claws before twisting to bury herself in the center of her deconstructed masterpiece to nap.

It was on one of those days that there was a terrible row in the upstairs bedroom, one bright afternoon.

She had just slipped back into the house after an excursion to the garden shed when she'd heard the raised voices of her Mistress and Papa coming from the bedroom. Shouting occurred in their home rarely, although it did happen on occasion, but she could never remember feeling the alarm that she did that day. Papa's voice was a black thundercloud, vicious and snarling, although Mistress did not appear cowed by his anger, her own voice sharp and shrill and ringing.

When the shattering sound of something large and heavy exploded at the wall, she fled, terrified.

Papa's room, the one with all of the books that she liked to knock off the shelves would be the best place to hide, she'd decided. It was dark and full of hidden nooks, and there was normally a fire in the grate. She wasn't sure how long she'd been cowering there when he'd entered the room wearily, sinking into his chair before the hearth. She'd crept to his side, pawing at the hem of his trouser leg until she'd been given access to his lap, seeking the reassurance of his stroking hand that everything was back to normal in their quiet little home. If there was to be shattered glass and other minor destructions, they should occur at her direction, after all.

There had been a palpable tension in the house following the row that had lasted for weeks.

At first, she had been delighted with the change, for it meant that Papa didn't abandon her at night. She would stay near his side as he made noise on the vibrating table, or else would snuggle into his lap as he stared into the fire. She ensured the presents she brought him were her most artistic work: twitching sparrows with wings spread wide and frogs with only partially missing limbs, their entrails twisted artfully. He always took her gifts with a shake of the head, calling her  _a very naughty girl_ , which she was called often, and assumed it meant he was quite pleased with her.

Eventually, she came to realize that the tension in the house was oppressive, and that neither Papa nor Mistress were happy, not even when she did her best to be adorable.

The night that Papa had risen from the chair before the fire and flung the glass he was sipping from into the flames had been the most frightening occasion she could remember, and that included the time she'd gotten her tail caught in trap. The explosion of flames in the grate had sent her fleeing, seeking solace in the bedroom Mistress now occupied alone, the sound of wood splintering against the door she'd exited just a moment later hurrying her along.

When she'd reached the bedroom though, she found that, for the first time since she'd been presented to Mistress as a small, mewling thing with a red bow at her neck, she was unwelcome. Mistress's voice was sharp, sending her from the room angrily, and she raced to her basket in the big room downstairs, hiding under the cashmere throw.

Dark corners were her only companions for several days after that, as she took care to stay as far away from the people in the house as she could. Her pride was wounded and the tranquility of their home shattered, and if they didn't want her around, perhaps she'd go live in the garden shed permanently.

The creatures that lurked outside of the house paid the price for her injured feelings during those days, although trail of blood and mangled bodies she'd left in her wake mollified her only a little. Without Papa there to accept her gifts and call her  _a very naughty girl_ , the bloodshed seemed empty and joyless. The only thing that brought her any semblance of comfort was her hidden treasure, and she sulked in the center of the pile, the blood-red strands the same hue of the smear across the cobbles, next to the mouse of which she'd grown tired of toying.

Mistress had cried when she'd been found out.

She'd been slinking across the cobbles, moving as silent as a shadow, or so she'd thought. Papa's hands had shot out of nowhere, bone-white fingers curled like talons, swooping her up like a vicious raptor from the air. She'd yowled in outrage, twisting in his arms, determined to be freed. She'd been faring just fine on her own, after all. It didn't matter that the taste of the garden mice left much to be desired, compared to the fine meals Papa prepared her, nor did it matter that her bow had snagged on the thorny branches of Papa's roses, and now hung in a shabby tatter around her neck. They didn't want her around.

She'd been pressed into Mistress's arms, her fur sobbed into, her ears stroked, and her matted fur smoothed. Papa called her  _a very naughty girl_ , and she'd been brought to the kitchen and plied with food; her tattered ribbon removed and replaced with one that matched the sky, and she thought, as Mistress tied it into a wide bow around her neck, that it looked very handsome against her soft, grey fur.

"She was only hiding, my darling girl. She's absolutely fine. I daresay the bird population has been thoroughly culled this week, but the little beast looks no worse for wear."

"Yes...you were right, darling. I'm just glad she's home, safe and sound...I'm sorry, Erik. It-it must have been lost in the move, I shouldn't have accused you so horribly."

She looked up from her little porcelain bowl to the sound of murmurs. Their heads were together, and Papa was brushing a long finger at Mistress's cheek. She tucked into the remainder of her meal,satisfied that peace had returned to her home.

.

.

The winter was interminable.

She was not permitted outdoors during the snow, and she had few complaints over that, preferring instead to be installed on a lap in front of the fire, rather than shivering in the garden. There was the occasional mouse that made it in with the firewood to allay her bloodlust for time being; she was well-fed and happy and had no reason to fuss. It wasn't until an early spring day, when Papa went out to check on how his roses had fared during the cold snowy months, that she'd remembered her secret treasure. Bounding out of the house, she'd slipped up the garden path, slinking past him to the small shed.

She'd heard the squeak of the door too late, had looked up guiltily from where she was tangled in a puddle of crimson yarn. Papa's golden eyes shone in the dim light, a mirror of her own, and she'd mewled innocently up at where he stood staring slack-jawed down at her. His eyes widened as he knelt, reaching a shaking hand out to brush at her treasure.

She was unprepared for the laughter that issued from his mouth then; it startled her, and she'd twisted in panic at the sudden noise in the small space of the shed.

He'd laughed, and laughed; hunching to grip the table, he'd laughed until he'd wheezed. He'd seemed to get a handle on himself, quieting eventually...until he'd looked down on her, and started the whole cacophonous display all over again. She'd worried, when he'd dropped to a knee before her, worried that he'd try to take her treasure from her, returning it to Mistress and its rightful place in the wardrobe. Instead, he'd cupped her head in his hands, scratching at her tufted ears and placing a kiss above her eyes.

"That's my good girl. This will be our little secret then, eh?"


	6. Old Gods

She had never considered herself prone to hallucinations.

The occasional flight of fancy, perhaps, Christine thought, and it would not be an unfair judgement to say she had been, in years past, of a somewhat credulous nature.

But hallucinations were not something from which she could say she'd regularly suffered. It stood to reason then, she considered as her fingers gripped the corner of the music on the stand in front of her, mussing the heavy ivory paper, that a gilded bust of Napoleon  _was_  indeed nestled amongst a large vase of dried flowers and ostrich feathers, an onyx statue of a regal looking cat, and assorted other bric-a-brac on the credenza in her husband's study.

A gilded bust of Napoleon that bore more than just a passing resemblance to one that was rumored to have gone missing from the manager's office at the opera, only two summers past.

_That's simply not possible. That would mean that he'd...that he must have…_

_No_ , she reassured herself. He couldn't have. He  _wouldn't_  have.

She'd been back at the Opera for several seasons, seasons which had been defined by a calm placidness. The Opera Ghost was little more than a memory at that point, a tall tale whispered by the youngest ballet rats and nothing more. The man who had once been a ghost had retired from such wicked tomfoolery, and there was a completely logical explanation for the bust she was absolutely  _not_  hallucinating.

Even as the seemingly confident thoughts crossed her mind, Christine knew she was lying to herself. She'd been married to the man for years, after all, and was well-versed in her husband's capacity for mischief and gleeful wrong-doing.

She had traveled widely in her youth, alongside her father, before they were taken in by the Professor and Mamma—days spent traversing great swaths of countryside and nights spent sleeping under the stars, as Pappa went from village to village, playing his violin. The wonders of the natural world were not foreign to her, and Christine recalled seeing steaming fissures in the earth, spots where boiling water blew into the air as though Satan himself was viciously expelling the liquid from his domain. Her husband, she'd learned, was very much like one of those hot spots. Needful of an outlet, so that he did not erupt with pent-up troublemaking.

She had perfected the art of turning a blind eye.

There had been the man up the road who, after boastfully alerting the entire neighborhood to his recent acquisition of one of the brand-new Lavassor streetcars, had climbed into the vehicle with nearly the entire ème standing witness to his triumph of status, only for the entire thing to come crashing to the ground, the wheels no longer affixed to the chassis, or so she had heard from Juliette at luncheon the following day. Her husband had sipped his tea with a queer smile as the cocophany drifted up the road, and when he settled at his piano, the polonaise he played had distinctly celebratory air.

Then there had been the wretched mynah bird. He'd kissed her goodbye as she'd left for rehearsals that day, announcing that "Erik has errands that need attending," and when she'd come home, there was a tufty little black bird sitting on his shoulder as he bustled about the kitchen, preparing an onion tart. There had been no explanation offered as to the bird's provenance, and Christine had considered the fact that she was hallucinating on that day too, as he served her with a flourish, drizzling honey on the slice of tart he placed before her, before kissing her temple as if the bird was not even there.

She'd avoided contemplating from where the bird had been  _liberated,_  for her husband had a bone-deep weakness for animals that he considered to be in need of assistance, and no doubt determined that the feathered little fiend had been languishing in a too-small cage in someone's drawing room. He'd taught it call her  _Sweet Christine_ , taught it to shriek obscenities out the upstairs window at the easily excitable old woman who lived across the lane, taught it shout  _You great booby!_  at no one in particular, which never failed to make Erik wheeze in laughter. When she'd finally insisted the bird needed to disappear as mysteriously as it had appeared in their home, he'd installed it at the vicarage, where the incessant squawk of  _pederast_! issued from the belfry.

Turning a blind eye to her husband's mischief was, at this point in their marriage, second nature. But the Opera—the Opera was off limits. The Opera Ghost was gone, and there was to be no resurrection of his restless spirit as long as she headlined each season. The notion of him resorting to his old tricks at her place of employment, regardless of their history there, was one she could simply not abide, and she would have an apology from his lips for disregarding her rules.

The click of the front door opening and closing alerted her to his returned presence in the house, as she continued to contemplate the bust—a click that she only heard because he wished for her to do so, she knew, for his voice sounded behind her only a few moments later, and she definitely had  _not_  heard his approach into the room.

"It is quite a mild morning, my dear. Perhaps Christine might wish to take some air before she returns to her rehearsals."

The temperature was not the only thing that was mild. His voice too was casual and carefree, the voice of a man with no worries, who wanted nothing more than to stroll around the garden and show his lovely wife the progress of the roses he meticulously tended for her enjoyment.

It was a trap, she knew.

Once upon ago, her husband had been able to compel her with minimal effort expended on his part. These days, Christine preferred to make him work for it.

"That sounds lovely, darling. I was just looking for a score...do you mind terribly that I'm in here, Erik?"

He'd moved to stand close behind her, a light hand at her back, and she couldn't help but feel as though he were subtly shepherding her to the door with every breath.

"Of course not. This is Sweet Christine's home, she is a welcome presence in every room. Would you prefer it, my darling girl, if we were to sing through this score Christine needs so desperately?"

She turned at that moment, just in time to see the slight tension in his shoulders drop, his benign smile taking on a triumphant edge. He  _had_  been surreptitiously moving her across the room, she realized...only, she now stood directly next to the credenza, the bust in plain view.

"Darling," she began through gritted teeth, convulsively gripping a fistful of her dress, "do you remember the story I told you the season we put up Les Troyens? About the bust in the manager's office?"

He still wore the mask from his sojourn out of the house that morning, but she was able to tell that his brow furrowed by the slight dip it gave against his features. If she'd been expecting his easy capitulation, Christine considered, she would have been sorely disappointed; fortunately, she knew him well enough to not cling to such a fleeting hope.

Long, cool fingertips gripped her wrist lightly before trailing over the top of her hand. A tremor shivered up her spine at the soft touch, the gentle glide of his elegant, infinitely talented digits gently caressing her own, releasing the fistful of french blue brocade they clenched. The valenciennes lace that bordered her overskirt was carefully smoothed, the creases caused from her clutching grip gentled away in the wake of his careful hands.

"Hmm...I can't say that I do, dearest heart. Your Erik's mind is not as sharp as it once was."

A dull flush of fury crept up her neck at his breezy reply. An  _older man_  or not, the brute's mind was a steel trap.

"The bust that went missing from the manager's office, Erik. It was quite the scandal, Eugène and Gilles were beside themselves for weeks...do you remember it, darling? It was a bust of Napoleon."  _There_ , she thought. Let him lie to her face, if he dared. The offending sculpture was a scant foot away, hidden as it was in his other treasures. She  _would_  have her apology.

"Ah, I do recall that, now that you mention it...a rather vulgar thing, if memory serves, quite overdone with embellishments, likely to hide its true nature. A vessel, rather than an  _objet d'art_ , my dear. Whatever became of that chap who played Priam? I quite liked his Commendatore, you know...I think I should like to hear you sing through  _Dido's Lament_  from the Purcell, Christine. I certainly think you've developed the weight in your lower register to do it fair justice and you really ought to consid—"

" _Darling_ ," she interrupted, before he managed to spin the conversation into her having an impromptu lesson, all talk of the missing bust soon forgotten. "The bust of Napoleon. What do you mean it was a vessel? How would you know that, Erik?"

"Are you aware, my Christine, that Napoleon is said to have written a love story?" His voice was lighter now, cat-like and teasing. Another trap. "We should endeavor to find a copy to add to your shelf; Erik knows how much his Christine values her collection. Who knows what elucidation could be gained from such a volume."

This time, the flush crept to ears. There were books on her husband's shelves that would have given scandal itself a need for the smelling salts. Erotic art, vulgar prose,  _instructional_  manuals! It had made her blush to consider him... _enjoying_  such literature when she'd first discovered them, before their marriage. She'd taken great interest in noting which sections were dog-eared, the spines creased from repeated openings over the years. The fact that he'd caught her perusing several of the tomes on more than one occasion thrilled him to no end, prompting him to have gathered them all up on a single shelf which he delighted in referring to as  _her_  shelf in the library.

"Erik wonders," he mused, drawing her near, a distracting arm snaking about her waist to tug her closer, "if Christine might enjoy reading by the fire with her Erik this evening…"

Warmth tightened her stomach. An evening in front of the fire, seated on her husband's lap as he read aloud from one of the volumes on  _her_  shelf did sound like an enjoyable way to spend her night off, and it  _had_  been several weeks since they'd enjoyed such a diversion outside of their bedroom... _No!_ her mind shouted, prompting her to twist from his arms, not allowing her body to succumb to the seduction of his wandering hands. Her nostrils flared as she regarded him with gritted teeth once more _. He will answer for this first!_

"The bust, Erik—"

"Did you know, dearest heart, that the theft of art and culture committed by Bonaparte's regime is on a comparative scale with that of the Romans to the Greeks?"

He seemed determined to wriggle out of answering her directly, although Christine took note of the sudden fire in his eyes that accompanied this newest deflection _. If he even thinks_ …

"I seem to remember that previous season being one of even greater scandal than this trifle over a missing sculpture, my dear. Les Huguenots was a sold-thru run, as was Nabucco, yet by the time the planning was to be done for the following season, the company was operating on a vastly reduced budget. A mystery never fully explained, was it not?"

Christine's eyes narrowed in remembrance. Gilles had abruptly left the opera shortly after Les Troyens closed at the end of the season. There had been rumors that funds were being misappropriated behind closed doors for months, and the company certainly was operating on what felt like an excessively thin budget, but as a performer she had scant visibility to such doings. All she knew was that with each progressive production, the costumes and sets suffered.

"The Little Corporal's conquest of Egypt was initially thought to be one of the greatest military exploits in this nation's checkered history, before Alexandria, of course...the sacking of temples, the apprehension of priceless artifacts...can you imagine the wrath of those old gods, my Christine? All powerful once, in an age forgotten, forced to watch the debasement and desecration of their once hallowed halls in silence, left impotent with non-belief? Can you imagine their fury?"

His voice, his sonorous velvet voice, still enthralling to her, even after all this time, was deceptively placid. Even still, Christine detected a spark of something else there: the fire in his eyes was matched by a crackle of flames in his voice, simmering, banked just below the surface of his calm façade.

An uncomfortable twist quivered low in her belly before moving upwards to thicken her throat. Suddenly, quite without warning, she felt remorse for those old gods: no longer in positions of reverence in those holy temples they'd once called home; forgotten and discounted by time and distance and the strict rules of the wives they strove to please.

She swallowed around her heart, remembering the sudden boon the Populaire had received at the close of the season, in the form of a bequeathment from a wealthy patron. She wondered now if that gift had merely been a return of the funds that were hidden away...

"I also seem to remember there being an incredibly generous donation by an anonymous patron at the end of that season, do you remember, Erik? That horrendous old fly rig was replaced and the company was able to bring back that talented young man who painted the scrims."

"Ah, that I do recall. The old wig mistress returned as well, I believe you mentioned? Sweet Christine was a radiant Lucia at that premiere gala."

Her eyes fluttered closed as he lifted her chin with a gentle hand. She removed the mask in a smooth, practiced gesture, gripping a handful of his waistcoat as he kissed her lips.

Somewhere over the years, Christine had come to the acceptance that she'd married a feral beast. Oh, she'd done her best to domesticate him: Erik had always doted on her, was, in fact, a better cook than her, never hesitated to do the washing up, was always ready with a gallant hand to assist her in any chore. He made himself scarce on the occasions that she entertained in their well-appointed parlour, and made a show of retiring with her at a respectable hour, waiting until she was asleep before slipping away to his own devices.

And really, his mischief was easy to overlook, she supposed. As far as she knew, the man up the road hadn't been seriously injured when his new streetcar had disassembled, and a love for animals was quite a charming trait...and truth be told, the Opera  _had_  always run quite smoothly with its spectral overseer.

"Does Sweet Christine wish to sing through her score?"

His voice was a low, plush curl of velvet, and she arched into it, thinking that she would quite like to read from one of  _her_  books that evening. The bust on the credenza was little more than a trophy, she realized with a suppressed grin, a token of reverence to that temple from which it had been pilfered, and she wondered what he kept in it now. She'd not received her apology, those were words he hadn't said...but old gods didn't need to apologize, she supposed. Forgotten and unfeared as they were, they still had the right to protect their former kingdoms.

"Christine would like to walk outside with her Erik, and see her roses, I think."

Raising on her toes, she brushed her lips to his, a forgotten god, exerting what little power he could, before she took his offered arm. After all, turning a blind eye hadn't hurt her thus far.


	7. Journals

A/N: Written for i-penna's Tumblr prompt: Have you ever kept a journal; takes place five years after Distractions

* * *

The girl had been back at the Opera for several months.

Hardly a girl, he corrected himself wryly. The cool, forget-me-not eyes that touched over him now had the hardness of a woman, one who'd known more than her share of life's sorrows, despite her relatively young age. He watched as her rose-bud mouth pursed at the sight of him and slumped a bit, setting his little leather-bound book aside.

He'd initially hoped to go unnoticed, when he'd first heard she'd returned. After all, it had been several years since the events below the fifth cellar, four long years for her to forget his face. She had been unobservant back then, in that way that people who were not trained, either by life experience or profession, to be constantly vigilant tended to be. Her eyes had been guileless, blue and unassuming, her countenance untroubled in the beginning, a delicate daisy, invisible in the background of the company.

As the months wore on, worry and stress had crept in; glances over her shoulder, long peering looks into the shadows, and he'd recorded every one. Keen observational skills and meticulous record-keeping were the tools of every good detective, you see, and he employed them with precision and skill.

She'd noticed him then, once she'd become aware of the predicament in which she'd found herself.

Still, that had been years ago, and he'd felt the pressing passage of time weighing on him heavily since that night beneath Opera. Surely she'd not recognize the whitened old man he'd become, or so he'd thought.

The passage of time had not been long enough to cloud her memory, evidently, for the moment her eyes had landed on him in the reception hallway, that first night he'd attended a performance after her return, recognition had immediately bloomed in their dark blue depths, before narrowing to sapphire slits. Mohammed watched as she composed herself in the next instant, her expression smoothing, a beatific smile turning back to her throng of admirers.

The girl, if it was possible, had grown even lovelier over the years. She'd not been what fashionable society would have considered a great beauty then, her golden curls and pink-tinged cheeks the opposite look of what the women in the salons he occasionally frequented strove to achieve, but she'd always possessed a quiet sort of charm, a soft elegance with down-cast eyes and a hesitant smile.

She'd lost the timidity of her chorus days, he'd seen at once, and somehow the quiet confidence she possessed now made her all the lovelier. The diva smiled for the crowd that pressed around her, laughing and offering her thanks as she accepted the flowers pushed into her arms. Her eyes had found him again when her head had lifted, flashing with warning before closing the door to her dressing room with finality once the patrons moved on.

The daisy, it seemed, had become a rose.

She almost seemed to expect his presence now, although the momentary tightening of her lovely features, a flashing of her thorns indicated she was still less than pleased to see him. Mohammed opened the journal, noting the date and time of her reaction once he'd stood to the side of the crowd.

The slim leather volumes he preferred were procured from a small shop up the road from his flat. Their compact size fit neatly in the pocket of his topcoat, their creamy pages thick and absorbent, and he'd made it a habit over the years to never be without one.

Oh, he'd recorded every moment of it in his little journal—the breakdown in trust that was evident in the heavy shadows beneath the girl's sad blue eyes, the sudden relationship with the noble for whom she'd seemed to hold only the barest hint of affection only weeks prior, the fiasco of the Bal Masque. He'd been there, of course, holding to the shadows, recording all that he saw: the black and white figures fleeing the plumed specter in red, the squalling fool whose wrist had paid the price for his stupidity, and the girl's vanishment at the night's end.

She'd dropped a piece of sheet music once in those early days, an occasion when he'd been walking behind her, quite purposefully, unbeknownst to her, of course, and he'd hurried to retrieve it for her. She'd smelled of the cold—of the wind and snow and the wide-open winter sky, unfettered and free, and he'd understood immediately why the man he'd once been inclined to call a friend had been so smitten with her, as he'd made a note in his journal that day.

Yes, he'd understood what Erik saw in the girl. She was lovely, she was talented, and she was as free as a bird.

Her motivations had been much harder to pin down.

At first, he'd assumed she was simply taking advantage of the situation, using the desperate loneliness of the masked man and the free instruction he provided to advance her career, and those early journals were full of observations he'd made based on that assumption. As the weeks wore on though, he was forced to re-examine his judgement, for the girl confounded him.

He'd revisited his early entries, comparing them nightly with the fresher observations he'd made:

_The girl has a wealthy suitor_

It was true, he'd mused, looking over his most recent findings at the time. The Vicomte de Chagny  _was_  pursuing the girl, quite persistently at that. The man's older brother, the Comte, was well known in the foyer de la danse, and he'd assumed that the girl was as accepting of the  _quid pro quo_ favors bestowed by such a wealthy patron as the petit rats of the ballet. But since he'd started his entries on her, he'd witnessed himself the way she'd treated the Vicomte—with a guarded reluctance, and the chilly manner in which she'd sent him from her door after his repeated declarations that they should sup together.

_The girl is devout and chaste_

Other than the Vicomte, he'd never witnessed any other man attempt to catch the girl alone, and he'd watched her coming and going from the big church on the Cavaillé-Coll several times a week. It had amused him, at first, that the shah's Angel of Death should have set his sights on such a timid, pious little flower. Had he been born with even an average face, Erik would have been a first-rate profligate, of that Mohammed had little doubt, but the girl—the girl seemed nothing of that sort.

It had astounded him then, the first time he'd heard the high, feminine gasps coming from within the little dressing room. The corridors were empty, the morning's rehearsal having ended over an hour prior, but the girl had not reappeared from her dressing room on a seldom-used corridor since then, and as he'd loitered about, hoping to catch sight of her upon her exit, he'd heard it.

The unmistakable sound of carnal delight, keening from the girl's golden throat.

The leather-backed book had nearly slipped from his grasp as he'd pressed to the door, his mouth hanging open in stupefaction at what he'd heard. The cries had continued until they'd reached their crisis, and his hand had been shaking as he'd written his entry that day.

When she'd left the room at last, she had been alone. There'd been a carriage waiting for her on the Rue Scribe side of the building, a cloaked figure there, offering a solicitous hand to assist her ascent. The man's hat was tipped at a rakish angle, but Mohammed would have recognized that tall, lank form anywhere.

_Not the Vicomte de Chagny_

It had not been the last time he'd overheard such an assignation taking place, at one point recording in his little book the way the Vicomte himself lurked outside the door, watcher watching watcher until the young man's face had nearly turned purple in rage as the girl's cries within the room reached a crescendo.

Still, her motivations remained a mystery to him.

His little leather books were filled with notations on her odd comings and goings, the way her eyes would cast about as if she were seeking something or someone specific, always seeming vaguely disappointed by what she found. Her smiles—for she would always be smiling!—when she would exit her dressing room in the afternoons would be soft and content, her expression musing.

He didn't understand.

He didn't understand her smiles, didn't understand the way she often looked as though she'd rather be elsewhere when she was with her handsome young man, didn't understand her seeking glances into empty hallways. He'd never understood the girl's reactions to the events that took place. When she should have been fearful, as she was pulled along by the handsome young noble, she only seemed sad. When she ought to have terrified, she'd seemed full of remorse.

The shouts he'd listened to, that fateful night on the other side of that burning wall, had been of two people who'd taken each other to pieces, another thing he hadn't understood, but there'd been none of the horror he'd expected, none of the mindless rage he would have recognized from the man he'd known.

He'd recorded, from his supine position in his own bed in his own flat, where he'd been mysteriously returned after nearly expiring in the bowels of the earth, everything that had transpired below that night, from the flight through the catacombs with the boy in tow, to the heated room that haunted his dreams nightly until he woke gasping, unsure if he was in Paris or Persia, the difference seeming negligible in the sweat-soaked predawn hours.

He didn't understand  _why_. He didn't know to where the girl had fled afterwards, nor how long she'd been there. The Vicomte was to marry her, he'd assured Mohammed of that fact numerous times that night, as they'd traveled down the unending steps into the unknown darkness...why then had he seen the marriage announcement in the society pages naming the new Vicomtesse as someone other than the diva they'd both nearly died rescuing? Why did the slim gold band adorning the fourth finger of her left hand seem so ominous, her smiles so guarded?

Why had they rescued the girl in the first place?

His notes had failed him; the journals on his shelf seemed to delight in mocking the old man who thumbed through their pages, muttering to himself.

The girl had been a mystery, and then she'd disappeared. Four years later, she was a mystery to him still.

He'd approached her at her dressing room door once, when she'd first returned, had beseeched her to meet with him, that he might lay to rest these ghosts that plagued him. She'd rejoined him coldly, had denied and insulted him, and as he'd recorded the conversation afterwards, he'd scowled at the words on the page.

_I pity you if you're still the same man._

Was he? Mohammed searched through his volumes, looking for a clue that would prove her wrong, but his observations were rarely internal.

He'd done the right thing, he'd reminded himself repeatedly over the years; he'd been right to intervene. The girl had needed rescuing.

Hadn't she?

The dead man himself had appeared on his doorstep only days later, sweeping into the flat as if he were expected, sniffing at the decor and turning his nose up at the vintage he was offered.

The last time Mohammed had seen him, he'd claimed to be dying, and the sickly pallor, the red-rimmed eyes, and the air of brokenness that had accompanied him left little doubt to the veracity of his words.

As he stood before the glowing fireplace, tall and healthy and almost carefree, it had been like seeing a ghost. An entitled, arrogant ghost. A very much  _alive_  ghost.

"This is not a social call, Daroga."

He'd neatly evaded all inquiries into his whereabouts for the previous several years, sidestepping questions about the girl, about the opera, brought up the exorbitant sum of of the silversmith around the corner, tapping his walking stick in cadence with the fast patter of his words, brought up the court and did Mohammed remember that fat fellow with the limp who tended the peacocks? Asked after Darius, mentioned a girl who had fallen into the river last week, did Mohammed see the papers? Talked in circles until Mohammed had completely forgotten the nature of the conversation and was left staring, slack-jawed at the man before him.

He'd been with the girl, Mohammed had realized. All that time, he'd been with the girl. For the first time since they'd been acquainted, the masked man seemed at ease, and the gold band that glinted on the newly-returned diva's hand was most certainly the reason.

The girl...had needed rescuing. He'd been certain of it. She had fled immediately after, hadn't she?  _And had left her fiancé behind_.

Another question mark in the journal, another  _why_  that would elude him forever.

"We are happy," the masked man murmured, running a spindly finger over the book spines before him. "I don't expect you to understand, Daroga, but you will not be permitted to upset her again. If you attempt to accost her outside of the Opera, you need not fret—Erik will ensure your body is facing Mecca when he lays you to rest."

He'd wrangled a promise before Erik disappeared once more—they would meet, periodically, so that he could ascertain the continued good behavior of the man who was no longer a ghost. He would keep track of his findings in his leather-bound friends, would continue to unravel the mysteries, would find the piece he'd missed that would grant absolution in the role he'd played that night.

He'd squirmed uncomfortably beneath the weight of the unblinking golden stare that held him, and wondered if the girl had grown used to such reptilian scrutiny when she took her husband to her bed.

"That is acceptable, daroga. Erik will comply with your request...I daresay you need the company."

He'd stolen a book, Mohammed realized after he'd left.

"My husband is taking me to dinner, and then I'm taking the hottest bath my skin can stand." He listened to her laugh with her dresser, the dressing room door opened slightly, the other patrons long since dispersed. He recorded the girl's words carefully in the journal before taking his leave. It wouldn't do to be caught out, and tomorrow would be another day to pursue the  _why_  he still chased.

He would record his findings until he found his answer.


End file.
